


Trained

by MissMarionette



Series: Sorry to Bother You, But My Heart is Breaking (Solas x Lavellan) [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Bittersweet, Dark Solas (Dragon Age), F/M, Introspection, POV Solas (Dragon Age), POV Third Person, Vaginal Fingering, but he's still the same plotting sort of bastard, dark in the lovestruck Loki sense, or like a tired cynical hedonist that has found pure love for the first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23524021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMarionette/pseuds/MissMarionette
Summary: A brief glimpse into a Solavellan relationship dynamic where Solas, as Fen'Harel, had once lived quite a hedonistic lifestyle. His understandable jadedness has begun to crack since meeting Lavellan, a young woman that compared to his worldly and experienced self, is all but innocence personified.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan
Series: Sorry to Bother You, But My Heart is Breaking (Solas x Lavellan) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1183034
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	Trained

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alexis_Trvlyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexis_Trvlyn/gifts).



> I found this in my folder of bits and pieces and was like, "Um, this is basically done? Why haven't I published this? Oh yeah, because I didn't know if it would make sense."
> 
> Posting this in dedication to Alexis, my #1 fan.

He has her body trained well. All that is required is a heated look, a set of whispered words against the nape of her neck, a casual touch, and interest will start to wetly collect between her legs. She was an unexpected development in his plans, and she is made even more enigmatic by the fact that she has somehow ensnared his heart as incidentally as he has ensnared hers. 

* * *

It is horribly derivative, and words can't properly convey, but..she has awakened something in him, something set to sleep long before his spirit was put to eternal rest, before the betrayal, before his rebellion. The resurrection of the rakish youth he can now only recall with a tinge of bitterness and regret even when the more..tactile images flicker to the forefront of his mind.

Then, as now, as he knows it will always be, he found great respite in the acquisition of knowledge. To learn, to know, to postulate, to theorize and predict. 

In his youth, however, he was just as easily intrigued by those studies which required a partner, or two, or three, or four, or five. Hours, days, weeks spent memorizing another's body, exploring every curve and crease.

A person was like an package cleverly tied up with a single spool of twine. One cut would unravel the present. It was his pleasure to find that one thread after testing the give and tautness of each.

The bliss that resulted was a product, a goal, yes, but not the sole objective. For all of his ventures into solipsism, for all the formless flowing of time in the Fade, he had not come to better understand _what_ this other 'else' was sought in these trysts, only that there were times when he briefly felt on the cusp of determining its name, its nature.

Certain words captured only pieces, flashes. Belonging. Contentment. Home. 

And only now like the fool he was did he realize it had rested on his tongue this entire time. _Vhen'an_.

He desires to do the same with her.

* * *

Once alone together, he sets out to harvest the fruits of these earlier seeded snares. 

As always, it begins with a kiss. A chaste one that affirms his feelings. _I love you._

It shifts, subtly, beginning with the way he sucks at her lower lip and rests his hand on the slight curve of her bottom. _I desire you._

They pull away and he is satisfied that her round inked cheeks are pink, her lips are plush, her pupils blown as she bashfully peers up at him through dark lashes. _Allow me to demonstrate how much._

She presses close to him, _needing_ but still not yet understanding how. It is with his hand sliding underneath the hem of her breeches that he finds her all but soaked through her smallclothes. And the heat, _the heat_ that radiates in this closed space...

She squirms as his fingers rub her through the damp fabric, embarrassed and assailing him with a flurry of hushed apologies. He suspects she holds the belief that showing enthusiasm would displease or disgust him. His love overthinks far too much.

He feels the old wolf locked securely in its cage stir, lift its nose in the air at the decadent musky scent that accompanies his manual stirring of her loins. It licks its fangs and rises to peer through the bars. The persona known as Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf whose courtyard and temple remained absent of servants by day yet echoed with lustful screams by night. ' ** _Let us taste her. Let us feast. Tears and honey and sweat and blood. Sweet, sweet prey. She will be unable to resist. We shall convince her that she will not want to. She is already so_ willing--**'

' **Be silent** **.** ' he tells himself, and the firmness of his self-admonishment reflects in the here-and-now with the way he tightens his hold on her for but a moment longer than normal. ' **Absolutely not. Not her. Never shall we have her.** ' 

* * *

He had always been a thorough man. If someone left his arms, they did so with their veins filled with sand and their hearts turned to ash.

In Arlathan there had been certain slaves he considered companions of a sort, ones that piqued his curiosity and interest for a short time.

Suggestive glances became flirtatious verbal chess became very real fucking, sometimes had on the very spot where they stood, or else against the wall.

Or an artfully-carved pillar.

Bent over a desk. Joined by another in his bed.

They rarely interested him after that. Not that he thought of them as lesser once he had mounted them, but the spark of mystery died with the successful conquest. A few coins or a small trinket for them to remember him by and they were quietly dismissed.

The courtesans and whores in the cities quickly learned of him as a man that gave as good as he received. In turn, he acquired eyes and ears more than willing to imbibe the secrets of their patrons in order to curry further favor or else repay him for his manners. Dirthamen, the cloaked wraith, was not the only one with the ability to recruit spies. The only difference was that Solas's "people" had ears on the filth-covered streets, in the orphanages and behind the merchant booths.

There were several times where he rented out a brothel's stock of young girls to convene in at his gloomy temple to play games and braid hair for an evening.

Their weary faces came to split into shy, guileless smiles as his tall dark presence entertained them with simple feats of magic--illusions of snow fall, small bursts of fireworks, the birth and ascent of fiery birds and dragons. The younger ones came to call him ' _hahren_ ', and he welcomed the impudence with a sort of masochistic glee. 

Moreso, some of the more enthralled and of suitable age would argue with impertinence he made sure to punish deliciously.

* * *

There would be nothing left of the Inquisitor after he was done, no part of her that would not crave him like a dying man in the desert craves water. She already looks to him to allow her spirit to rest in his arms. She swallows his every word and glance. She is worth more than a casual lay. Anything less would be the same as carving out her heart and devouring it in front of her.

This precious child..

* * *

She allows him this barest touch, this meager sample, and it is all he deserves. It is all he will ever deserve. And he will accept it gratefully with no resentment. She is giving so much. The importance cannot be overstated.

This sweet girl. She never knew pleasure before him. He is her first. Perhaps to be her only. He is honored. He is unworthy. He is blessed.

Because he loves her so very much, this achingly fragile child with a spirit crafted from the breaths of babes and butterfly bones and spider webs studded with morning dew.

What this is--there is lust here, yes, but..but there is something more at work here, much more.

He wants to see her come undone, but not for his own satisfaction, not to gratify himself.

He wants to be her tool. He wants--he wants her to find herself.

He wants to bear witness to it, that moment when she blooms, that moment when the ideal shatters into reality made manifest, when the hand passes through the mirror to the other side.

He wants to cradle her in his hands and let her flutter and twist and rock against him until she is sated. He will not press or break or tear the fragile flesh. He will not gouge or pry open the little bud shyly daring to unfurl and reveal its flower. 

He wants her. He wants her to feel safe and loved and beautiful, even more. 

When it is time for them to inevitably part, he will take solace in the fact that she will remain whole and intact.

Soft words of encouragement compel her to take residence atop his thighs. She remains so afraid of all that is and yet cannot help but _trust_ that kindnesses can be traded. Despite knowing better, the same part of him that despaired over the demise of Wisdom opines that it is not _fair_ that this gentle creature should too suffer beneath its own benevolent nature. 

* * *

In another time, in the perfect world that once existed, this shame would not exist. They would join as spirits. She would know nothing but pleasure undulating throughout her being like ripples in a pool. That would be her existence, her enviable fate. And when she was to consider herself fulfilled of that--weeks, months, years, decades, centuries--she would collect herself back into her body and find solace in the material form of his warm lap and arms. 

* * *

For now he must contend himself with the pitiful whimpers he edges out of her by methodically stroking the swollen bundle of nerves found above the entrance her quim. The one that when pressed upon more firmly makes her throw her head back against his shoulder to choke on gasps stuck in her throat and stare unseeingly into space.

It does delight the sadistic wretch in him to hear the hysteria in her voice as her pants quicken in time to the thrusting of his fingers, as her hands grip his knees as if they were her only means of remaining ashore in a hurricane. The begging for the torture to end, for it all to end, to _grant her mercy, please, please it's too much it's too much, it's too--_

And he does. With a swift flourish and endless grace, he ends her existence, peels her old skin away in a small rebirth as she wondrously comes against his palm. Muscles spasm, honest relief is pulled from her lips, and proof of tension seeps from her like sap from a tree. Her inner walls suckle on his fingers as if he were providing a nipple for a mouth. It sings to him, ' _more, just a little more? I've had all I can take but please just a little more?_ ' It reminds him of a strong heartbeat. He wonders if she can feel his own pounding against her back.

She is limp and barely lucid in his arms, and he helps maintain her consciousness by massaging the lingering twitches out of her limbs and allowing her to do what feels natural and right at the present time. She curls up against him and shuts herself away from the world for a few minutes.

She swims in the aether, neither here nor there, and his kisses serve to gently lasso her down from the clouds and back to earth, back to where he is waiting with the gift of a quick wipe-down and an opportunity to swallow even more of his time with cuddling and perhaps a short nap. She never refuses, and neither does he.

* * *

Once, he would have taken the time to breathe in deep swaths of the musky perfume of sex that always persisted in the air as a base miasma. To him, it was satisfying, unequivocal evidence of a good lay, a duty to his partner he never once consciously forsook, and its presence could titillate him even further depending on his conviction.

* * *

Indeed, the scent of her arousal nibbled at the edges of his self-control now, and she can surely feel how he stands at impatient attention in his breeches. His remedy is surprisingly simple--found in the true scent of her short brown hair, that of wind blowing gently through a forest canopy. Of shy, uncertain smiles. Of cedar-and-pine-scented salve rubbed into palms calloused from the firm handling of a bow. 

The mildest irritation from persistently unmet need gradually fades. Not disappear, but rather be dismissed like a small flame from a mage's hand. 

_Precious girl_ , he praises as he kisses her features softened by contentment. _Precious, precious girl._ Ar lath. Bellanaris _. Forever and always._

She murmurs his name and he echoes hers back, and when it comes time for her to slide off his lap and work her undergarments back up to their proper place, he cannot stop his hand from reaching out and playfully pinching her bottom. 

The squeak of surprise as she whips around to confirm the identity of the assailant draws a mirthful laugh where a challenging sneer would have sufficed in days gone by. Her mouth pulls downward as hurt and worry flicker across her face.

Her chronic nervousness from a young age had allowed few opportunities to stray farther than the arms of her Mother and whichever elder taught her the art of the bow. She thus thinks she is being made a fool of.

He remembers right then--too late--that he has yet to fully teach her that teasing did not always originate from a place of scorn or cruelty. He adopts a penitent expression as he beckons for her hand. A kiss is planted on the smooth knuckles in humble, genuine apology. 

Fortunately, the sting of the transgression ebbs with this. She accepts his apology because she has no other recourse, because she cannot bear to refuse forgiveness.

This fact rattles uncomfortably in his chest, but he cannot find the strength of integrity to acknowledge that at this time. He makes it much more difficult in how purposefully helpful he is in tying up the front of her breeches for her. She instinctively looks down to watch him work, and when he is done he raises his head to meet her for a kiss.

He feels how she shivers against his mouth, not out of renewed lust but _gratitude, joy, awe_ that he could love a defective person like her.

He finds that he does not wholly detest the devotion this inspires, but when he rises to give her the symbolically paternal peck on the forehead to denote the absolute end of this scene, he resolves that some greater training in personal decorum on his part might be agreeable, for her sake.


End file.
